


Games Drunk and Sober

by plutomere



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Belligerent Sexual Tension, F/M, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Time Skip, and to a bar, sneaking out of the monastery, that period of the game where claude's a shit over byleth's crest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-11-28 21:42:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20973506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plutomere/pseuds/plutomere
Summary: In an attempt to bridge the new divide between them opened by her Crest, Byleth agrees to bust monastery curfew and go drinking with Claude.





	Games Drunk and Sober

**Author's Note:**

> I have a guilty fondness for that beginning segment of the game, where Claude's basically a brat over Byleth's sword/crest/general air of mystery... all while Byleth is trying to be legitimately helpful... Love me some good learning to trust and work together arcs.

Though the Church always unsettles her, Byleth finds it harder to sleep the month Flayn goes missing. Thoughts of Flayn rattle about her head like a tea tin kicked across cobblestone.  Just  as loud are thoughts about the Death Knight, the Sword of the Creator, Tomas asking after her and Jeralt, Claude’s abrupt, blatant distrust for her—Whenever Byleth tries to lie in bed, her concerns all come together to scream at her in unintelligible, noisy mush. Tonight, like she has the past week, she lies in bed as stares up at the ceiling while Sothis sleeps. Things were easier when Jeralt handled all the problems that a blade couldn't.

Nerves buzzing, Byleth rolls out of bed, pulls on her boots and a dressing gown over her nightgown—Hilda had once seen her about in  just  the nightgown and lectured her for a solid five minutes—and slips outside. No one else dares to wander the grounds at night with rumors of the Death Knight swirling.  Byleth basks in the quiet a moment before wandering to the nearby parapets to look out over the surrounding countryside.  A blanket of fog is thick over the trees, leaving the treetops to poke above the grey like miniatures of themselves.  As she looks out over the sleepy scenery, Byleth can almost imagine those noisy concerns quieting, too.

Her peace is short-lived. At the soft sound of quieted footsteps, Byleth reaches for the dagger stashed down her boot. Though she doubts the Death Knight is so light of foot, she also doubts the sneak is up to any good. Byleth pounces on the shadow in the fog.

As she tackles him, Byleth recognizes a distinctive mess of dark, rumpled hair.  However, momentum carries her and Claude to the ground together anyways. When Byleth pushes herself up onto her hands and knees, Claude sheathes his dagger.  A  frustratingly  self-assured smirk paints his lips, as if her pinning him to the ground is another predicted move fitted into his grand plan. “Good evening to you, too, Teach,” Claude says. “You look picturesque tonight in that loose-flowing dressing gown. Moonlight flatters you. We should meet in it more often.”

“Why’re you sneaking around?” Byleth asks.

“In the hopes you and I could meet like this,” Claude says.  When she doesn’t react, Claude pushes himself up on his elbows to whisper: “And  technically, we’re breaking curfew, aren’t we?”

“Curfew?”

“Yeah, no one’s supposed to be out past nightfall until this Death Knight guy  is caught,” Claude says. “Don’t tell me no one mentioned it to you.” When Byleth shakes her head, Claude shakes his head, too. “Typical. Well, I won’t snitch, so don’t worry.”

“Why were you out past curfew?” Byleth asks. She eyes his loose tunic and trousers for clues, before giving up and turning her frown back to his face.

She can see Claude debate being coy or truthful. “Lost track of time at the library,” Claude says.  Given Claude’s general disregard for monastery rules, Byleth translates that into ‘I don’t give a shit about the curfew.’

“Was Tomas there?” Byleth asks. Claude hums a yes. Byleth starts to drum her fingers against the cobblestone. "Did he ask something about me or Jeralt?"

“He had all sorts of questions about your sword,” Claude says. He lets the words sit between them, before breaking into an easy grin. “Don’t fret like that, Teach. I told him I didn’t know anything about it.”

“So… The truth, then,” Byleth says, but her fingers still of their own accord.

Claude winks, leaving her to interpret whatever that might mean. "Do I get a reward for being good?" Claude asks.

Byleth raises her eyebrows. Encouraged by a reaction, Claude intrudes a hair further into her space. "Congratulations. You get to live," Byleth deadpans. Sweeping to her feet, she stashes her dagger in her boot and sweeps back to the parapets.

To her chagrin, Claude trails after her. He drapes himself beside her on the parapet walls, his arm brushing hers. The tie meant to cinch the throat of his blouse is undone, exposing a swath of collarbone.  If her own decision to wander outside wasn't impulsive, Byleth would suspect that Claude had been waiting out here to toy with her.

“Whatcha up to, Teach?” Smugness darkens Claude's tone.

“Nothing,” Byleth says, averting her gaze to the trees.

"Nothing," Claude fires back, in a breathy, girlish imitation of her voice.

“I’m not in the mood to argue with you tonight.”

Claude hums. “Somethin’ bigger keepin’ you up, huh?” Claude asks. “You can confide in me. I won’t tell.”

He might not tell, but she doubts he’s lending an ear from the goodness of his heart either. “I can handle myself,” Byleth says regardless of his intention, because it’s true.

“So cold,” Claude whines. “Y’know, if we’re gonna lead the Deer together, you have to trust me a little. People can sense when their leaders have a tense relationship.”

“You don’t trust me,” Byleth says.

“I don’t trust myself around you,” Claude says with a cheeky grin. "Beautiful, skilled, cool under pressure... I have to keep a little distance, or I wouldn't be able to resist."

"I'm sure the allure of my stone face makes me a challenge to be around," Byleth says, but Claude doesn't flinch when she confronts his lie. Byleth turns her attention back up to the fog. If Jeralt were here, he’d know how to handle Claude, she thinks. What would Jeralt do, Byleth muses.  His conflict resolution techniques usually boiled down to fighting or drinking until the complaint  was forgotten. Byleth eyes Claude. “You wanna spar?”

“I think  you’d beat me up, and I like my nose in its current shape,” Claude says.

“You wanna see if the kitchens have any whiskey?” Byleth asks.

“Trying to get me drunk? Then I  certainly  couldn’t trust myself around you,” Claude purrs.

Byleth wracks her head for a third thing, but nothing comes to mind. “Then, you wanna spar?” Byleth tries again.

Claude pushes himself off the parapet walls. “If those are my options, I pick drinking. Meet me by the stables in ten minutes. I know a way to sneak out the monastery without needing the front gate.”

Without waiting for her approval, Claude saunters towards their sleeping quarters. Byleth follows close behind. “I thought we were going to get something from the kitchens,” Byleth says.

“No way we can go to the kitchens and not get caught. It’s crawlin’ with staff and knights,” Claude says. “I know where the bars are in town. We can  just  pop in one of them. S'not a far walk.”

“I'm not allowed to leave the monastery off mission,” Byleth says. The one time she tried to, the knights had refused to open the gates between profuse apologies. Orders, they had said. What Rhea would do if she defied those orders, Byleth isn't sure.

"Why not? You gonna combust? Burst into doves?" Claude asks. Byleth opens her mouth to explain her anxieties, then closes it when she doesn't know how to vocalize them.  No one's ever looked at her like Rhea has, as if she both hung the moon and the stars and yet was little more than an insect on Rhea's shoe. When he realizes she's stopped following him, Claude rounds on her. "We only get in trouble if we get caught--Which we won't long as I'm around. What kind of crappy rulebreaker do you take me for?"

Byleth casts about for an argument, but Claude is cleverer than most of the guards. "You wanna get out of here, or you wanna stay locked in your tower, Princess?" Claude asks.

"Don't call me Princess," Byleth says.

"I thought it was rather fitting," Claude says. "There's a wicked witch and everything."

"Fine.  I'll meet you by the stables--Just, not so loud," Byleth hisses, before Claude's fat,  unapologetically  blasphemous mouth can get him in trouble. He smiles at her with all the self-satisfaction of a child who's snuck a cookie from the jar.

When she arrives at the stables, Claude’s little more than a few moments behind. After tossing a cloak at her—with a comment that she’s too eye-catching—Claude pulls a second over his shoulders. Then, they’re on their way, wiggling through a crumbling section of wall and down a rocky, wooded path.

Though Claude's smuggled Byleth out of her witch's tower, the monastery towering over the town is a stark reminder of who owns her. The main streets crawl with knights like ants over a piece of dropped fruit.  Their armor glimmers in the lamplight, muted by the fog that only thickened as Byleth and Claude descended from the monastery.  Without Claude, Byleth doubts she could've snuck by them--never mind snuck out of the monastery at all. He steers her through back alleys with practiced ease, past one tavern, then another. Finally, they stop before a dumpy bar. It’s so rundown that even the sign seems to have lost the will to hang from its pole, dangling crooked from a single hinge.

“We gotta go to the shitty bar,” Claude says, with a side eye for the establishment. “No, let’s not say that. We’re goin’ to the bar with character. Everyone likes character, right?”

“Were the others not shitty enough?” Byleth asks.

“I get antsy when my mug isn't coated in a fine film of--No, too many knights,” Claude says. He draws in close behind her and sets his hands on her shoulders. “Might be some shady characters in there, though. You’ll protect me if there’s a bar fight, right?”

“Are you going to start one?” Byleth asks, choosing to ignore how his antics make her stomach flip.  Ignoring her question in turn, Claude pulls open the door and beckons her inside with a toothy grin and an elaborate flourish. Byleth sets her hand on her sword, belted beneath her cloak before they left, and ventures inside.

Though the town backstreets are as still as the grave, the bar throngs with people. The mass of humanity, and the accompanying sights, sounds, and smells, makes her head swim.  The center of the bar is free of furniture, filled with drinkers, lovers, and a scant few brave enough to attempt to dance to a group of discordant minstrels crammed into a corner.  Booths line the walls, where Byleth can see patrons playing cards and holding hushed conversation. When she locks eyes with one of the cardplayers, the man winks at her. Byleth tightens her grip on her sword hilt. Men who paid close attention to her in taverns were the first to get aggressive when she didn't smile enough.

The crowd gawks at Claude, too, but it's clear they've already labelled him trouble.  As they thread through the packed tavern, people huddle together and angle coin purses from him.  The bartender polishes his glasses with increased fervor as they approach, as if in hope they might leave if forced to wait long enough. Unperturbed, Claude settles on a stool and waits for the bartender to approach them. The  portly  man tosses his rag aside with a tight huff and squints at Claude. “Little far from home, aren’tcha?” the bartender asks.

Claude’s smile widens. “My money’s from right here in Fodlan, and that’s what matters, isn’t it?” Claude asks, tossing a few gold coins on the counter. “I’ll pay you up front for a cheap bottle of whiskey and some glasses. Then you can pretend me ‘n my friend here are part of the scenery.”

“Be a little hard when you don’t exactly blend in,” the bartender says. Claude adds a few more coins to the pile, and the bartender pockets it with a suspicious side eye. “If you start any trouble, I’m callin’ the knights. I know what your kind are like. Beasts, the lot of you.”

Byleth starts to rise from her seat, but Claude presses his knee against hers. Once the bartender is across the bar fixing their order, Claude brings his lips to her ear. “S’not worth it. We’re the ones that would get in trouble,” Claude whispers.

After the barkeep returns with their order, Claude finds them a booth. It’s a nondescript location, so  dimly  lit that any gossips would have to focus to see who’s sitting there.  A sweet smelling, purple haze envelops the booth to the right, revealing only the few sets of boots that poke from the bottom. In the booth to the left, a small crowd plays dice for what appear to be fist-sized rubies.

Claude nudges her into their booth and slides in beside her. Only once the bartender stops glowering at them does Byleth ease her grip on her blade. “Why's everyone look at you like that?” Byleth asks.

"Jealous of my natural good looks," Claude says, attention focused on opening their whiskey.  As she gives him an opportunity to elaborate with a truthful answer, Byleth traces over some of the initials carved into the sticky table. After a count to fifteen, Byleth abandons the carvings.

"Are you in some sort of local trouble?" Byleth asks. "Did you bring me here to beat up a gang?"

"No, I like to save gang fighting for the second date," Claude says.

Ignoring Claude's baiting tease, Byleth turns to face him, so it's harder for him to wiggle out of questioning. "Is there a gang? Is that why everyone's looking at you?" Byleth asks.

Claude sets the bottle down to look at her. "Jeralt didn't teach you shit about how the world works, did he?" Claude asks, tone impressed.

Byleth straightens against the hard back of the booth. "He did his best," Byleth says. Claude makes a face of blatant disbelief that Byleth allows only because it's a rare flash of honesty. "So? Are you going to explain or not?"

Claude picks up the stout bottle back up and pours them drinks. “People here don’t like me the same way some people don’t like you. Outsiders make ‘em nervous,” Claude says, without looking at her. "Now, I know Jeralt drinks like a fish. Like father, like daughter?"

Byleth raises an eyebrow at the unsubtle conversation steering, but Claude's  been struck  with a sudden case of selective blindness. "Never had much interest in it," Byleth says. "Don't like the taste."

"This was your idea," Claude says, bemusement playing on his lips.

"I didn't know what else to suggest," Byleth says. "I grew up with mercenaries. All they did was drink and fight."

When Claude picks up his glass, he motions for her to do the same. Byleth obliges. “Cheers,” Claude purrs, clinking his glass to hers. She downs her drink the way Jeralt would, but Claude sets his glass down still half full. Claude refills hers again.

Byleth eyes the glass, then eyes Claude. His disingenuous smile betrays nothing of his intentions for her. Byleth takes the drink anyways, in an attempt to get it through Claude's thick head that she has nothing to hide.

Claude is more than happy to carry the conversation himself in the beginning, regaling her with idle gossip about the monastery between refills of her glass.  Compared to his experiences, hers feel rather dull, but Claude prompts her for little stories about fishing and the monastery cats. As the whiskey warms her, Byleth slips Claude's cloak from her shoulders. Claude leans into her bare arm, warming her in a different way.

If she were  just  a woman and he were  just  a man, Byleth might dare to want him, but she's not stupid. She's a freak, and Claude's a liar. "I'm drunk. Ask me what you want to ask me," Byleth says.

“You’re unflappable,” Claude mutters, voice equal parts awed and frustrated. He pours her another drink with an unsteady hand, sloshing a bit over the rim when he pushes it to her. The playacting, while good, doesn't fool her. “Y’know, there’s a buncha people out there that’d kill for composure like yours.”

As the world spins and she wants nothing more than to curl into a ball and fall asleep on his lap, Byleth doesn’t feel particularly composed. “Kill who?” Byleth asks.

Claude snorts. “Isn’t that the million gold question?” Claude murmurs, deft fingers running up and down his glass like it's a woman's curves. Byleth pushes her glass away, but Claude's too busy frowning at his drink to notice. “Why are you the way you are…”

“I don’t know,” Byleth says, keeping her voice curt in an attempt to keep her wayward thoughts in line. With Claude's weight pressed against her, the task is difficult. “If I knew, you would know by now. I don't have the head for your games.”

"For someone who doesn't have the head for my games, you're  remarkably  good at them," Claude says.  A hint of frustration curves his usual smirk into a near sneer as he leans in to breathe: "All those coy looks of yours could give Hilda a run for her money. At least she's upfront about what she wants from her charade."

The air of legitimate accusation in his voice takes her aback. Most people stopped thinking she had desires once they got to know her. "And what is it you think I want?" Byleth asks, out of true curiosity.

The fabric of her dressing gown feels thin beneath Claude's piercing gaze. When he smiles, it doesn't meet his eyes. "The truth,  just  like me," Claude says, tone as sweet as honey. “Y'know, if you  really  don't know what's goin' on with you, I bet your pops does. Otherwise, he wouldn't keep all those things from you.”

Byleth draws herself from her drunken slump, forcing Claude to straighten off her shoulder. “Keep Jeralt out of it.”

The petulant pleasure on Claude's face at her reaction is an expression Byleth recognizes.  He wore it, too, when goading Seteth after the man confiscated a pile of Claude's belongings, and when sending Lorenz into a spluttering fit about nobility in retaliation for some ill she missed. Claude leans in.  "He’s got a lot on his plate right now with all this church stuff, that Death Knight guy, Tomas askin’ questions… If you got the truth from him, then you could take lookin' after you off his plate," Claude says.

“I could tell you, you mean,” Byleth says. Then, jerking to her feet: “I’m going back to the monastery.” There's nothing to  be gained  working with him, Byleth's decided. Claude makes her hot in too many foreign ways.

She rises too  quickly, the rest of bar rising a little after her, and tumbles back into the booth. “Thought you were leaving,” Claude says.  Her dead-eyed stare only emboldens him to peep at her beneath his lashes like some blushing coquette. “If you ask reeeal nice—”

“I don’t need your help,” Byleth says. With monumental, unsteady effort, she clambers over him and staggers out of the booth.  While Byleth’s never been one to mind her dignity, Claude's snicker forces her to fix her mussed hair and dressing gown.

“Well, aren’t you the picture of competent and capable?” Claude says  sweetly.

“You're... You're...” Claude sips his drink and waits as she flounders for her retort. "The truth about me better be up your ass, because that's... where your head is," Byleth spits back, finally. It's utter nonsense, and Claude bites on the inside of his cheek to stop whatever his reaction was about to be. Byleth turns on her heel and stalks out of the bar.

When she bursts from the bar, Byleth picks a random direction and starts walking.  The further she storms from the building, the more the warmth of the whiskey wears off, until she’s shivering in her thin dressing gown.  Rather than slink back to retrieve her borrowed cloak from beneath Claude’s self-satisfied smirk, Byleth folds her arms over her chest and keeps walking. A few drunken loiterers catcall as she stomps by.

Byleth stops in the street, a horrid thought turning her legs to lead.  It was when Jeralt left her alone that suspicious villagers felt bold enough to turn on her, and she had left Claude alone in a bar full of people who thought he was there to steal something. One of the drunks staggers up to her. “Awful dangerous for a pretty thing like you to be alone this late,” the man slurs, a sour smell on his breath.  Byleth doesn't bother explaining she can handle herself, because it will only upset the man. He jabs a thumb in the general direction of his friends. "Why don't you come hang with us?"

Byleth looks around the alley for any  indication  of how to get back to the bar. “I’m looking for…” Byleth casts about for the bar’s name, but nothing comes to mind. “I’m looking for the shitty bar.” A murmur of understanding goes up amid the men.

"S'not  really  a place for a lady such's yerself,” the one with the sour breath says. "Bad sort'n there."

“No, my... partner's there,” Byleth says. “Do you know how to get there?”

“Your partner cute?” the sour-smelling drunk asks. Byleth nods. “Well, then, c’mon this way, darlin’.” He slings an arm around her shoulders and steers her down the alley. His friends trail close behind.

When they arrive at the bar, Claude is gone.  The bartender assures her that Claude left of his own accord, delivering the news that 'her Almyran man ditched her' with such glee that Byleth doesn't doubt his truthfulness.  As the bartender turns to lecturing her on picking better customers--is she dressed like a prostitute, Byleth wonders--Byleth leaves. The three drunks she's found trail after her.

There's no trace of Claude outside, not that Byleth expected anything. If she had to guess, he's returning to the monastery as she hovers outside the bar like a fool. "You in some sorta trouble, darlin'?" the weasel-faced drunk asks. When Byleth frowns at him, he mouths something her vision is too blurry to interpret.

"We heard Joel mention 'myrans," the watery-eyed one says. "And you got a funny look in your eye. You charmed or drugged or somethin'? This guy got you in some kinda… business?"

Their musings are nonsense, so Byleth ignores them as they ramble about Claude. The monastery towers overhead, a constant reminder of the path she needs to take to bed.  Though she could make it back without him, it feels wrong to return without knowing Claude's safe first.

The sour-smelling drunk grabs her by the arm, fingers digging into her skin. "Let's take you to the knights," the sour-smelling drunk says. "You'll be safe from any Almyrans with 'em. They got swords 'n stuff."

Byleth yanks herself free and staggers backwards, out of easy reach. The drunks watch her like she's a wild animal they've cornered. "Not the knights," Byleth says. "I'm leaving. Don't follow me."

Byleth makes it a few unsteady steps before the watery-eyed one snatches her shoulder, tugging her back into his chest. "Look here, hon, we know somethin's not right," the watery-eyed drunk says. "Let's go down--"

"Let go of me," Byleth says.

"She's not right in the head," the watery-eyed drunk says to his companions. "Cursed, maybe..."

"Little thing can't be more 'n a hundred 'n change soakin' wet.  Just  carry her," the sour-smelling drunk says.

"Don't touch me," Byleth snaps, jerking out of his friend's grip. The three men share a look, none eager to attempt to carry her. "Stop touching me. I don't need any of your help. I need my partner."

"You don't know what yer sayin'," the sour-smelling drunk says. He dips down to sling her over his shoulder, so Byleth decks him.

The drunk staggers to the ground with a howl of pain that cuts through the foggy night. Beneath the hand he's clapped to his nose, Byleth can see blood running down his face. His friends drop to his side, eyes wide as saucers. “The crazy broad broke my nose,” the sour-smelling drunk wails, muffled in his hand.

"I said stop touching me," Byleth says, clenching and unclenching her fists. The three men stare at her in abject fear. Byleth backs away from them, her eyes fixed for any sudden movement. The only sound in the street is the sour-smelling drunk's whimpering. She wishes Jeralt were here, with his air of authority, or even Claude, with his silver tongue. They would know how to handle this.

"Here. I can fix him," Byleth says, but as she channels healing magic into her fingertips, the men cower.

"What are you?" the watery-eyed one hisses. He rounds behind her, forcing her to turn her back on his weasel-faced companion. "What's wrong with you?"

The man tumbles to the ground with a squawk of pain before she can respond, to reveal Claude, flush-faced and breathless.  There’s a brief moment where Byleth wonders if she’s having a drunken hallucination, before the weasel-faced drunk jabs a shaking finger at Claude  .  “I-It's him—The Al-Al-Alm—” The weasel-faced drunk lurches towards Claude, so Byleth punches him, too. As the three men lay on the ground in pain, Claude snatches her hand and drags her away.

They storm down the back alleys in silence. Claude’s grip on her hand is too tight, but it’s comforting all the same. While Byleth gawks at him, Claude snatches intermittent glances at her in return. “What’re you doing here?” Byleth asks. "I thought you left."

Dragging her between a tool shed and an odd gated enclosure jutting from a building, Claude glances down both sides of the alley. Satisfied they're out of sight, Claude releases her to give her a thorough onceover. "What were you doing there with them?" Claude blurts, as he assesses her.

"I was looking for you, and I needed help finding the bar," Byleth says. She takes her cloak from Claude and throws it back over her shoulders. "There was a bit of a misunderstanding along the way.  They thought you were running a prostitution ring that they were very insistent on rescuing me from."

"Are you okay?" Claude asks.  There's an odd softness to his voice, as if they're murmuring in a place of worship instead of a trash-littered alley.

"I've been a mercenary for as long as I can remember," Byleth says, as she fastens her cloak. " However  drunk I am, I can handle three village men."

"You can still... not feel okay," Claude says, gaze somewhere around their boots.

"I'm fine now. I've found you," Byleth says, surprised by her own admonition. Claude tilts his head away, fascinated in kicking at a loose rock with the toe of his boot. His face is impossible to discern in the shadowed alley. Byleth sets a hand on his arm. "Are you okay? Why aren't you at the monastery?"

Claude blinks at her, as if she's speaking to him through a thick pane of glass. "I was looking for you," Claude says, long after the silence has become awkward. "So, I just followed the wails of pain and panic and lo, and behold..." He gestures at her with a flourish.

"That sounds far too casual. Weren't you running? You were out of breath," Byleth says. Claude's fascination with his loose rock increases tenfold. "Were you worried about me?"

“Don’t get sentimental on me. You’re not much use to me dead is all,” Claude scoffs, rosy to the tips of his ears. Looping an arm through hers, he tugs her out of the alley. “C’mon. Let’s get movin’ before your 'rescuers' get the guards.”

They start towards the monastery, Byleth leaning on Claude when her tipsy steps wobble . Across the street, another couple, far more giggly and more drunk, stumbles along. The more sober of the two carries the drunker on his back. Byleth turns an expectant gaze to Claude.

He pretends not to notice, before finally relenting with a sigh. “You  really  want a piggyback ride?” Claude asks. “I thought that’d go against your ice queen image.”

"I'm not that insecure," Byleth says. “It’ll take us all night to get back otherwise. A piggyback ride makes sense."

“Sure then,” Claude says. The easy agreement is as jarring as missing a stair. After some maneuvering, Claude heaves her up onto his back.  Her skirts hitch near her hips in a display that Byleth suspects would earn her a lecture from Hilda twice as long as the lecture on dressing gowns. Byleth can see a flush spilling across Claude's face again.

While Claude plods through the misty streets, Byleth’s head falls on his shoulder. He’s warm even through the layers.  A pleasant scent clings to his cloak, something reminiscent of the Almyran pine tea he prefers. When she nuzzles into him, Claude’s grip on her legs tightens.

“Tonight was nice,” Byleth murmurs, as her eyelids grow heavy.

"If tonight was nice, you need to get out more," Claude says. "There's nothing for it, I suppose. We'll  just  have to sneak out again sometime."

Byleth hums her agreement into his cloak.


End file.
